


Brothers in Christ

by walkydeads



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sex in a Church, Sibling Incest, Twincest, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2208474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkydeads/pseuds/walkydeads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy waxes poetic about the future of their career and the nature of their sins (while he's got Connor's dick in his mouth)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers in Christ

“Forget prayer,   
this is where we stand:  
Take your mouth   
put it anywhere you please.   
Your mouth, my stomach   
Your mouth, my thighs  
I will be all three:  
your altar   
your holy wine   
and your bent knees”  
\--Azra T.

Half of Murphy thinks they’ll eventually gravitate out of this calling. Have normal lives. The world will never be fully eradicated of evil, he knows, but he also knows God knows this; three men can only do so much. Although, these days, it’s mostly just him and Connor. Il Duce’s gone back into retirement. That’s what really spurs him thinking about his and Connor’s retirement; while they’re working through the seediest parts of New York, taking down entire crime syndicates indiscriminately, their ma and da are living comfortably in Ireland, enjoying old age.

He wonders if they’ll ever reach that part; both of them are already well past the age da was when he met ma, and they frankly don’t show any signs of slowing down anytime soon. Murphy is curious about the future, and a little skeptical that they’ll be able to do this indefinitely, but he doesn’t see the future any other way. He can’t see them with wives and kids, being providers and fathers and ignoring all the evil in the world.

That’s why he knows God turns a blind eye to moments like these. Everyone has needs, all humans are made in sin. If they’re out there doing the Lord’s work, killing that which is evil so that which is good may flourish and all that, they don’t have time for anything else. He feels sure God would rather him kiss the insides of Connor’s thighs than be perusing the streets for a hooker. Sure that God understands that he is still essentially on his knees for all the right reasons.

A long time ago, someone had told him that murder was murder, and that he was probably going to hell for the blood on his hands, no matter how deserving their victims were. He’s strangely comfortable with the notion. It makes actually thinking about what he’s doing a little less daunting. But, as with most things, he feels sure the people rattling off to him about morals are speaking out of fear. God understands his indiscretions. Hell, he encourages them at times, far as Murphy’s concerned.

Connor’s hand threads through his hair, and his brother tilts his head back, murmuring a prayer of his own in a language only they understand. Murphy read once that twins can create their own form of communication by the time they exit the womb, and he believes it. He knows which ones of Con’s muscles will twitch before they do, knows just how long to keep it going before he gives in.

“Murph,” Connor whines urgently.

And well, that’s his cue.

No matter how many times he does this, Connor’s cock will always feel heavy and foreign on his tongue, like the first time he took communion. He hadn’t expected the blood of Christ to be so sweet and he hadn’t expected his brother to turn into a dopey mess just because someone was touching him.

They’ve never done this in a church before. It’s bringing out Murphy’s inner poet, he decides. Making all these analogies and shit. But for fuck’s sake, they usually saved this for nights alone, nights when maybe they’d both had one too many and they’d shove their mattresses together and peel off one another’s clothes and rut against each other til they stunk of sex and stale sweat. This is the first time it’s been different.

The back corner pew where they are is lit up only by candles. It’s maybe two in the morning and thirty minutes ago they’d just put bullets in the heads of seven Italian mafiosos. When Connor had pulled him into the church, he expected that maybe they were going to ask forgiveness, when Connor’s rigid hand on his arm brought him to a pew he was thinking about whether they were even meant to ask for forgiveness for something they feel no remorse about. But that, of course, was when Connor slid Murphy’s hand over his dick, hard and straining against his jeans.

“Ah Christ, Murph,” Connor moans and Murphy smiles around his dick, dipping lower. The hand in his hair is like a vice, though it’s keeping him there more than pushing him in any particular direction. Murphy laps at his brother’s cock and closes his eyes.

“We’re probably a bit fucked up, eh?” Connor asks after he cums, after he kisses his taste out of Murphy’s mouth while tucking himself back into his pants. Murphy doesn’t ask him to return the favor. Never does. It’s enough as it is for the both of them. He feels what Connor does, maybe even more acutely than he does

Murphy grins at him, lopsided. “Aye.”

They pray and they leave. The thought’s occurred to Murphy before that they could eventually settle down anyway, get out of God’s work and get a house out in the hills and just enjoy each other’s company until they died. It’s ridiculous and he knows it would never work though. They’d bicker, they’d nag each other into an early grave. And anyway, there’s still far too much work to be done.

Sirens in the distance tell them they’d best be getting home before their work catches up to them.


End file.
